There was a flower in a scented garden,
It gleamed as it lay hanging from a tree,
It waved in the breeze with perfume laden,
And beckoned, softly, nodding toward me.
I reached out my hand, but just fingertip
Brushed it fleetingly, and, oh, its softness
Was much like the kiss of an infant lip,
While its one-eyed stare was all loneliness.
I waited for him to come and help me,
Waited for him to lend a stronger hand,
Waited for him to set the blossom free,
And I waited for him to understand.
But my wait stretched to an eternity,
And the flower died in its wait for me.
Hearts Still Care 